


(re) start

by capo (gliss)



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: M/M, Post-Game(s), Spoilers, fragments, thinly veiled love confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:13:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gliss/pseuds/capo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sorey remembers some things. He’s forgotten all the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(re) start

**Author's Note:**

> //// propels self from a small canon

 

 

Sorey kisses Mikleo against the sunset, like something straight out of those awful love verses he used to read. The light reflects off Mikleo’s hair, gives it a sheen of orange-rose-purple. Sorey’s sure he’ll always remember it, too, the way Mikleo gasped and smiled into his mouth, the way Mikleo’s body slumped into his own, the way Mikleo’s hands melded themselves to his arms, the way Mikleo’s eyes closed in a whisper. It’s a beautiful kiss, centuries of longing driving it to sharpness in the haziness of the melting colors, sweeter than honey, slow satisfaction pushed hot.

*

They end up in the strangest places, mystic waterfalls and forests that no men are said to ever have survived, hot springs shrouded by clouds. Sorey files each places away in his memory and thinks of Mikleo’s secret smile, the one that’s one taste of sad and three tastes of affection. Sorey’s heart warms and empties by degrees whenever he remembers it.

*

Sorey fucks Mikleo into a marble floor, watches the tight-strain in his throat. They use his Shepherd’s cloak as a sort of carpet. Mikleo’s hair like a starburst of clear light around his head, long strands that gleam whiter than the cloak itself. Mikleo’s mouth opens and closes and he makes soft noises, nice noises, and Sorey hears himself groan in response, all of it collapsing into the pit of his stomach, over his consciousness like a dream on marionette strings. Mikleo cleans himself up afterwards and Sorey clings to him, shivering and exhilarated and cold, reaching for edge pieces of a puzzle where he can’t see the entire picture.

*

Mikleo takes Sorey’s hand and leads him into a room lit by candles. He presses Sorey’s palm into his chest and murmurs the word “love”, and doesn’t say the word “waiting”, but Sorey hears it anyway. Beneath the layers of clothing Mikleo’s heart beats like a sparrow in flight; his breath wavers in time to the candle’s flickering. Sorey’s fingers sift through Mikleo’s hair, marvel at how smooth it is, how bright, how soft.

“You didn’t always have long hair, did you,” he asks quietly. Something stirs vaguely in the back of his mind, a shadow or a memory.

Mikleo smiles. It’s a start.

*

Or a restart:

Sorey laughs into Mikleo’s neck, pads of his fingers brushing warm against his sides, feels Mikleo thrashing around helplessly, yelps of uncontrollable mirth pouring from his throat. The bedsheets crinkle warmly around them. Mikleo’s hands find their way to the center of Sorey’s chest and drag down.

Sorey stops laughing for a second, and Mikleo takes his chance to flip them over, his hair tumbling loose around his shoulders in a cloud of silver.

“So that’s why,” Sorey remarks, casual, even though his body strains not to flinch upwards as Mikleo rolls his hips backwards, “knew there was a reason why you wanted all those stupid belts guarding your sides, you never did tell me why—”

*

The scent of Sorey always reminds Mikleo of himself, a little bit. He nudges the bare skin of his shoulder with his nose, and Sorey’s arms come around him tighter, warmer, protective and strong. Sorey’s eyelashes are darker than his hair, dark than his eyebrows, even, casting moth-wing shadows over his cheeks. Mikleo kisses his closed eyes, the edge of his eyelash shadows, the corner of his mouth, the peak of his collarbone. He feels a quick exhale against his hair and looks up to see Sorey blinking sleepily at him.

“What else haven’t you told me?” he whispers hoarsely.

Mikleo settles his head onto the warm pillow of Sorey’s chest. His heartbeat is steady and strong, centuries’ worth of strength, beating— for him, all, Mikleo wonders, for him.

“I think you know,” he answers back, and feels Sorey’s fingers curling against his spine.

 

 


End file.
